


A Healthy Erotic Imagination

by bestliars



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Cheerleaders, Crossdressing, Drag, Houston Aeros, M/M, Minnesota Wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bestliars/pseuds/bestliars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After seeing his frequent hook-up saying, “If I was a broad I’d be a cheerleader. I know all the cheers,” where else could his mind have gone? And there isn’t any better time to debate whether or not hockey is sexy than during sex. (there's a primer about who these dudes are linked in the notes. mostly it's smut.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Healthy Erotic Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> Don't recognize the names? No worries, I come bearing [primers](http://bestliar.dreamwidth.org/8756.html), though really no knowledge is necessary.
> 
> this story deserves a tag for like “sexualization of sports,” or “hockey being sexy” or something. sorry.
> 
> Writing this was a weird experience. It isn’t about an established pairing. It started as cracky smut, but grew a brain. I started writing this in a boring Shakespeare lecture. Part of it was written while watching old Doctor Who specials on Christmas day. The ending was written with my cat sitting on my lap. The editing process involved reading out loud to my dog in the exaggerated Minnesotan accent I fall into for public speaking. Considering the writing process, it isn’t really surprising that I wound up with a weird story. Anyway...
> 
> ALSO, so many thanks to Stellarer who did a magnificent beta job and patiently listened to me talk about this idea for ages. <3s dearest.

For Marco it starts at breakfast in Charlotte when Matt sits down across from him and says, “So, cheerleaders.”

It’s way too early for this. “What about cheerleaders?”

“I saw what you said on twitter.”

“I didn’t say anything on twitter,” Marco says. That is a fact. “I was just talking, Kampfer put it on twitter.”

“Do you really know all the cheers?” Matt asks.

“Would I lie about something like that?”

The answer is yes, he would totally lie about something like that. He isn’t lying this time, not entirely. He knows a lot of cheers. He might know all of them, but he doesn’t know how many cheers there are.

“Remember how we bet on the scrimmage?” Matt asks.

Marco nods. The bet had been an attempt to make the upcoming AHL season seem more exciting in the face of the NHL lockout. Marco had been assigned to the red team, and Matt to the green team. Green won both games, and now Marco owes Matt a favor. It wasn’t entirely clear what that means, because they had been drinking and a specific wagers had seemed too complicated, so it’s just a favor, possibly of a sexual nature, but who knows.

“No welching, right?”

“Of course not.” Marco’s almost offended that this is being raised as a possibility. He would hope that Matt thinks better of him.

“Great.” Matt goes back to eating his eggs in silence.

Marco doesn’t understand most of what just happened. Goalies are weird. Mornings aren’t nice. Breakfast is good though. He’s sure it will all make sense eventually.

The next day Matt asks him what he’s doing Tuesday afternoon. He isn’t doing anything. Who makes plans for Tuesdays?

Apparently they do, because Matt tells him to come over. This is a good thing. Marco likes sex and has been too lazy to pick up much this season. He’s bored of the nightlife in Houston, and whatever Matt has up his sleeve is liable to end in orgasms.

Marco never would have predicted what it starts with.

Matt says, “So, I have an idea,” with a predatory glimmer in his eye that makes Marco slightly more aroused than concerned. “I was thinking about cheerleaders. I like cheerleaders, and I like you, and then I thought...well, I thought up something very good.”

That isn’t vague at all.

“Nothing's gonna happen if you don't tell me what you want,” Marco says.

“I think you’re better off figuring it out yourself,” Matt says. “There’s a garment bag hanging on the back of the door. I don’t think you’ll have any questions.”

Marco gets up and unzips the thing. Inside is the prototypical cheerleading uniform, a sleeveless shirt and a pleated skirt. It’s women’s clothing, but large enough that it would probably fit him. Marco doesn’t know what to do, and decides he’ll just stare for a while.

“You want me to wear this?” Marco asks.

Matt nods, but doesn’t make eye contact.

“I’d put this on, and then we’d screw around, right? There’s going to be action, not just dress up.”

He watches Matt swallow. “Yeah, not just dress up.”

Marco takes a moment. He hasn’t considered this before, but it doesn’t sound too bad. It’s something he can add to and then cross off of his sexual bucket list, a special notch on his metaphorical headboard.

He reaches into the bag cautiously.

“It’s not the right colors,” Matt apologizes. “Not quite.” It’s white with red piping, instead of red and green, but that’s alright. It would have been kind of cool if it was Wild colors, but the upside is that he won’t look like a slutty Christmas elf.

Marco stares at the outfit for a moment, steeling himself, then starts stripping. His t-shirt goes over his head, his pants go down his thighs. He doesn’t fall over taking off his socks. He doesn’t check to see if Matt’s watching him.

He can’t just stand around in his shorts. Well, he could, but he won’t.

The shirt fits poorly, which he expected. The pleats are left unfilled and it’s too tight at the shoulder. The zipper doesn’t quite reach in the back, but it’ll do. He traces the the letters across his chest, E A S T, and wonders where Matt found this thing.

The skirt hem hits halfway down his thigh. He’s unaccustomed to anything like its silk lining against his skin. The way it glides across the short hair on his legs is fascinating.

“I can see your underwear,” Matt says.

It makes sense that his black boxers would be visible beneath the pale fabric. “So?”

“So you should take them off.”

Marco thinks of the skirt’s satin lining. Losing the briefs is a fine idea. He pulls them down, letting the cotton fall to the floor. The satin shifts against his dick. It’s a strange sensation, smooth, with just the slightest drag. The garment’s layered nature makes it rest heavily against his skin.

He walks around the room, enjoying the way the skirt swishes. It makes him want to add some extra oomph to his gait and sway his hips a little bit. He’s sure he looks silly, but it feels nice.

He didn’t mean to put on a show, but he can tell it’s appreciated. First by the way Matt stares, then by the way Matt reaches out, hands falling heavy on his hips.

Matt pulls him close, and Marco goes easily. He plants his knees to straddle Matt’s lap. The skirt gets pushed out of the way as Matt slides his hands up Marco’s thighs. He shivers. Matt’s hands don’t still.

“So.” It is an odd position, so close. “What now?” Marco asks.

He doesn’t have to wait for an answer. Matt’s mouth presses against his, and it’s easy to kiss back. He pushes Matt back against the bed and they don’t stop kissing. Breathing regularly is overrated.

It’s a dirty kiss, filthy, exploring. They don’t kiss a whole lot, but isn’t their first kiss. The situation surrounding that first kiss is hazy, but Marco remembers it fondly. He can’t remember the last time they kissed. It isn’t that they are opposed to kissing, but it’s unnecessary to the usual rough rush to get off. Kissing is a luxury they’ve chosen to live without, writing it off as an unneeded complication. Kissing is just about perfect for this moment though.

It fits the scene. There’s something quintessentially high school about making out like this, open mouthed, with almost too much tongue. When Marco thinks about cheerleaders he doesn’t think about the kind that exist in his everyday life. The Aero Dynamics are fine, but he associates “cheerleader” with a cultural archetype. If Marco was a cheerleader he would want to make out in the quarterback’s pickup truck.

They’d be parked on some empty road, which might as well be a scenic overlook, a proper make out point. The northern air would be cold, late in the afternoon with the sun low in the sky. Inside the vehicle would be warm though, heated by the movement of their bodies. They’d have to rush, limited to the span of time between school and dinner.

The idea of making the best of stolen time is familiar; they do that in the real world. But making the best of storage closets near the visitor's locker room and hiding away in the back of the bus isn’t the same as taking the long way home. It isn’t a matter of innocence, it has everything to do with freedom. Sex is sex, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting to have it, but the hypothetical cheerleader and quarterback have more opportunities to do what they want, and there’s less risk if they get found out. It seems as though some of this carefree spirit has bled through. The fantasy aspect makes everything feel a little bit lighter, which is nice.

Only Marco isn’t a cheerleader, Matt isn’t a quarterback, and they aren’t in a pickup truck, thank god. They’re both too tall for that shit. It’s better like this, where he can spread Matt out on the bed and pin his wrists above his head. Marco only has an inch in height, but he has the muscle mass to keep them like this. He doesn’t have to try very hard. His entire body is leverage, everywhere they touch is a place where he can feel Matt shudder and squirm.

They’re so close, Matt’s voice is in his ear, saying “Fuck, you’re hot like this.”

“Just like this?” He has to ask.

“Yeah, the rest of the time you’re downright ugly.”

Marco rolls his hips just to hear Matt groan.

“Fuck. I take it back. You’re gorgeous. Do that again.”

Marco laughs. “Maybe later.” He lowers his mouth to Matt’s neck. This isn’t something they usually do. When it does happen he tries to hold himself back, careful not to leave a hickey, but today he doesn’t care. If anything he wants for there to be a trace of their actions visible tomorrow. It’s a cheerleader’s insecurity bleeding through, wanting to mark her man so everyone knows not make a move. It’s dumb, and Matt isn’t his man, but he indulges the impulse anyway, sucking a bruise into the flesh at Matt’s jugular.

“This is better than I imagined,” Matt says. “I knew you’d go for it, because you’re easy. I knew I’d be into it, because after you said what you said I pictured this—you, dressed like this—that skirt, fuck—I couldn’t get it out of my head. I knew I’d like it, but I had no idea I’d like it so much.”

This admission makes Marco’s skin warm. That Matt has some kinks doesn’t come as a surprise; they’ve messed around enough, and he’s a goalie, of course he’s weird. It’s still nice to hear he’s appreciated. More than that, he likes to know he’s trusted. Telling a dude that you want them to dress them up in a cheerleading costume and then fuck around isn’t something that can be said to just anyone. There’s something dramatically uncasual about what they’re doing.

It’s not like dating. Marco wouldn’t want there to be dating, but it’s also more than sex. He’s had arrangements where it’s just hooking up, and he knows all about one night stands. This is different, not passionate, but affectionate. It’s pretty ideal.

The trust goes both ways. Bet or no, Marco wouldn’t put on this getup for just anyone. Sure, he’s easy, but a guy has to have limits. And apparently cross dressing isn’t one of his, not with Matt. He knows that Matt won’t hold it against him.

Honestly, he had been pretty skeptical about the whole idea, but it’s turning out pretty awesomely. There’s something neat about stumbling over a kink he didn’t know he had. It’s like a sexy gift from his subconscious, which is a nice change of pace from the usual nightmare fare of defeat and injury.

Matt’s saying something, but Marco doesn’t listen, until there’s an elbow in his gut, which gets his attention awfully fast.

“Ugh. What.”

“Let me up,” Matt says.

“I don’t want to.” He really doesn’t want to. Matt’s hot below him, the sweat on his skin tastes nice, he’s happy with how things are.

Then Matt says, “I want to blow you.”

“Oh. Really?” Marco doesn’t wait for an answer, scrambling to give Matt the space he needs to move, not wanting to give him a chance to reconsider. “Where do you want me?”

Matt pushes him back on the bed, and proceeds to slide down his body.

“You know, normally giving head isn’t my favorite thing, but today I really want to,” Matt says, sliding his hands to hold Marco’s hips. “I like the idea of getting under your skirt, with your dick in my mouth. I like the contrast, the contradiction. I thought about this a lot.”

Marco closes his eyes. He can feel Matt’s warm breath on his skin; he shivers in anticipation.

Then he doesn’t have to wait any longer, Matt’s mouth is around him, hot and wet.

Marco enjoys playing a cheerleader. It has obliterated his last few inhibitions. Big tough hockey players aren’t supposed to let anything get to them, but cheerleaders can gasp and moan with every touch.

Marco’s lips are unbitten and his head thrown back.

This isn’t just a blow job, it’s a demonstration of true skill.

“Fuck.”

Marco knows that if he was looking Matt would look as smug as it is possible to be with a cock in his mouth. He has plenty to be proud of, but Marco still won’t look. He doesn’t want to see anything, he just wants to feel.

That’s when Matt stops because he’s a cruel man. Marco opens his eyes when he feels Matt’s weight leave the bed. He’s standing still, looking down at Marco spread before him. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Matt smirks, then starts stripping. It’s a nice view.

Matt sits on the edge of the bed, resting one hand across Marco’s stomach. Then cutting to the point he says, “I can’t decide if I want to fuck you, or get fucked.”

Marco doesn’t care at this point. Really, he just wants to come, he wants it to stay this great, whatever that means. “Either. Whatever. Come on, don’t just sit there.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” 

Clearly Matt is overthinking things. Marco could make things happen faster if he wanted to.He's kept still by his own misplaced sense of discipline, not by Matt's hand resting on his belly. He could take the initiative, flip them over, or express any opinion, but he doesn’t care, he just wants something to happen.

“Do something. Please.” It isn’t begging, it’s a request.

“I’m going to ride you. Alright?”

More than alright. Marco doesn’t say that, words seem like too much work, but he nods in consent.

Matt finds lube and a condom. Marco reaches out to assist, but his help isn’t wanted. Matt pushes at his hands, forcing his palms flat against the mattress. Apparently he’s meant to lie back and watch.

The visuals are a treat, Matt opening himself up before lowering himself down on Marco’s cock. 

There isn’t anything elegant about fucking. It’s great, sure, but it’s messy, bodies smushing together, sweating, getting sticky.

The fragment of his mind not drowning in sensation is transfixed by their athleticism. Their passion is a product of their bodies, and their bodies are a product of hockey. That’s why he’s muscled instead of lanky, that’s why Matt can bend like this above him. The energy, the vigor of their thrusts is an effect of their training. If he was a cheerleader and his workout meant more high kicks than bag skates, he’d be more slender because mobility would be valued over the bulk needed to knock another player flat.

Even though they’re spending the afternoon in an erotic game of pretend, they cannot escape the influence of hockey. It has shaped their bodies. It brought them here together, Canadians shipped South to Houston, Texas, by the whims of the Minnesota Wild. Hockey has touched almost every detail of Marco’s life.

Hockey’s omnipresence is what makes being a cheerleader such a nice break. Cheerleaders don’t have to think about the lockout. Following stereotype, which is all he has, cheerleaders aren’t expected to think about anything at all.

When cheerleaders do think it isn’t about serious or manly things. In this guise he can think about frozen yogurt, or how nice Matt’s bone structure is. It gives him space to prod at the lurking homesickness, which isn’t longing for a specific place, but a desire to have a place of his own to go home to, somewhere he’ll never be made to leave.

That isn’t anything he can truly hope to have. As a hockey player it’s just another item on the bullet pointed list of things he’s sacrificed to play the game at the level he does.

It isn’t that he’s unhappy; how could he be discontent in the middle of such good sex? In truth he’s hardly thinking of anything concrete. His conscious thought is all rhythm and physical ecstasy. It’s his unconscious mind that’s decided it can be more than white noise, instead letting other feelings seep through. In this skirt, flat on his back he’s permitted to let loose the jumble of emotions that he would normally work to hold back. Here, with this trust, in this make believe, he can be vulnerable.

He tries to hold Matt close; he wants to cling. He tries to get his feet planted so he can thrust up. He tries everything he can to bring their flesh closer together. It doesn’t matter if desperation is a weakness, no one is asking him to be strong.

Matt dictates a languid pace. Their hips roll together, good and deep, but never enough. It’s making him insane, which fits, because Matt’s crazy to keep things so slow.

Matt’s all kinds of crazy, special Matt-crazy alongside the expected goalie-crazy, but Marco’s used to that. Matt’s the kind of crazy that means he’ll take things Marco says without thinking and turn them into hot kinky sex. Marco is really okay with this kind of crazy.

Marco is also totally cool with the goalie-crazy because it’s part of a package that includes goalie-flexibility, and some super intense staring that shouldn’t be hot, but is.

Matt can almost do the splits, maybe he should be the cheerleader. Maybe next time. Marco would not be opposed to exploring this possibility.

They’re good at sex together, they should have sex all the time. Or maybe the sex they’re having now will last forever. That seems plausible.

He’s undone, unraveled from the deliberate actions of Matt’s slow and steady pace. It isn’t enough. He wants more; he’s desperate.

Desperation should never be discouraged in moments like this, with Matt above him, clinging at the felt letters across his chest. He’s desperate for more, for faster, for a chance to thrust without thought until he comes, bringing Matt with him. Instead he’s held down by expectations. It’s fine, he can stay desperate, Matt can stay crazy. They can be fucked up and have great sex together.

They’re both desperate, gently desperate, desperately tender. It’s pleasantly unusual, and makes him feel a tinge delirious. The whole thing is just desperately nuts, which is what makes it such a good time.

Matt has a hell of a mouth on him, but most of the time that it is running he’s on the ice, talking shit to the other team. He’ll say stuff that makes the opposition angry, and then Marco has to fight the other guy to get Matt out of trouble. 

Matt’s pillow talk uses a lot of the same words, but in a different context—fuck me instead of fuck you—interspersed with low moans and sudden gasps that would boost Marco’s ego if he felt in any way that he was in control.

He isn’t. Matt is using him, but saying that isn’t enough, because he wants to be used like this. He’s desperate to be used like this, and Matt is desperate to use him.

“I don’t think you’re pretty,” Matt says. “Not at all.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Of course it is.”

Matt won’t stop talking. He lets loose a fast flowing stream of babble that Marco allows to wash over him, taking in the waves of curses and dirty humor that constitute Matt’s unfiltered brain, the extra step of keeping thoughts inside lost in the thrill of sex. Marco doesn’t attempt to to hold onto the words, his hearing is focused on the shortness in Matt’s breath.

“I like you like this best, probably,” Matt says. “I like it when you block shots too, but I’m pretty sure this is better.” Matt moves his hips, an incremental shift. “I wouldn’t say that any other time, but I have to say it now.”

The culmative effect of Matt’s many slight movements is disarming.

“I can’t lie with you in me,” Matt says, “Well, I can. I have, but I won’t lie about this.”

Matt says, “Let’s not talk about this after today.” He runs his fingers up Marco’s arm, over the vulnerable veins on his wrist. “I mean, let’s not talk about my talking. We can talk about you in drag anytime you want.”

Matt pulls on the hem of Marco’s skirt for emphasis, or as reminder, like Marco could forget. “It’s is a magnificent thing. Like, seriously, have you considered drag as an alternative career if this hockey thing doesn’t work out? I could be your manager. That would be terrible.” Matt makes a face, considering that possibility. “That’s the worst idea I’ve had in ages. Getting you in a skirt was one of my best ideas.”

It’s certainly turned out better than Marco would have predicted. The sex is generally good, but this is spectacular.

“The skirt is gold, solid gold, but you should take the top off. I like your chest.” Matt pushes the shirt up Marco’s stomach, then over his head. Marco thinks he hears a seam rip, but he doesn’t care. The top gets tangled around his elbows. Matt curses at it, manipulating Marco’s limbs like they’re his responsibility, even though Marco could free himself more easily without assistance. Matt throws the top across the room, dropping kisses on the insides of Marco’s wrists before presses his hands back onto the bed.

“If you did drag as a career you’d have to shave your legs. But you could do that anyway. I would like that.”

Marco is not surprised.

Now that his chest is bare Matt’s attention falls on Marco’s nipples, and really, he should have taken that shirt off ages ago.

“We should probably stick with hockey,” Matt says. “Shot blocking is kind of sexy. You could do that more, bastard.”

He punctuates that statement with a punch to Marco’s shoulder that hardly registers among the flood of endorphins.

“I like you better when you block shots and play solid defense.”

“So you’re saying you like it when I do your job for you?”

“I’m saying I like you better when you do your job,” Matt explains. “And it’s not just me, everybody likes you better when you play good hockey.”

Hockey is everywhere, even in their pillow talk. Of course it is. Marco doesn’t know how to live any other way.

“Hockey doesn’t actually turn me on,” Matt says. “Maybe.” He thinks about it a moment longer, before saying, “That might be a lie. See, I said I could lie while you were fucking me. That totally a lie. Hockey is sexy.”

Marco agrees. He knows that finding hockey sexy isn’t something he’s supposed to own up to, but he’s forgotten why. Of course hockey is sexy, he doesn’t understand why they’re expected to lie.

“Do you care if I lie during sex?” Matt asks.

“Not as long as you aren’t lying about me.”

“I’m not lying now. You’re hot. Hockey is sexy. Shot blocking isn’t, not really.”

Of course shot blocking isn’t sexy, it hurts. Marco won’t say that though, because Matt’s a goalie. This means he chose to put himself in a role where ideally he blocks all the shots, all the time. Which is crazy, because shot blocking leaves painful bruises, but maybe Matt’s into that.

Anyway, they have different perspectives. “Only sometimes it is, if it works. Great saves are sexy, but it would go against my honor to have sex with a goalie on another team, and the only other option is, like, Darcy. I couldn’t have sex with Darcy.”

“You can’t have sex with me if you keep on talking about Kruemps in bed. I don’t care if you lie, but don’t talk about your backup.”

“Fine, I’ll only talk about you. Is that what you want? Oh, Scandy, you’re so beautiful. Take me, you stallion of a man.”

Marco laughs. Really, what else can he do? (Flip them over and follow instructions, but he can tell when Matt is telling lies in bed.) He laughs and says, “Maybe you shouldn’t talk.”

“Maybe,” Matt concedes. “What should I do instead?”

Marco unclenches his hands from the bed sheets. He threads his fingers through Matt’s hair and says, “You should kiss me.”

Matt smirks, but acquiesces. Kissing is brilliant. They should kiss more often.

They kiss, and they kiss, with desperation, and without breath. They kiss with lips and tongues and teeth and gusto. They kiss with their bodies pressed together, skin against skin, with shifting hips pushing them closer to the edge of orgasm.

Matt’s dick is trapped against their bellies. Now that Marco is free to touch his hands are everywhere, roaming across Matt’s muscled shoulders. He manages to slip one hand between them to wrap his fingers around Matt’s cock. There isn’t much space to maneuver, but he manages a good grip, jacking Matt of more or less in sync with the shifting of their hips.

Matt shudders and groans. “Fuck. That’s fantastic. You’re good at this.”

This isn’t something Marco needs to be told. “Are you going to talk all day, or do you want to come?”

Matt pretends to deliberate. “If it’s an either/or situation, I guess I’m going to have to pick the orgasm. But there’s no real reason why I can’t do both.”

“Well, you could. That’s possible. I just thought there were better uses for your mouth,” Marco says.

Matt takes this suggestion to heart, scraping his teeth against the edge of Marco’s jaw, before going lower to kiss his neck, sucking a bruise into the tender flesh.

They’re wrapped around each other thoroughly, pressed into a close embrace, that while not without merit, isn’t exactly the most effective way of getting off.

“This might work better with some more friction,” Marco says. “What do you think about that?”

Matt doesn’t let go, so Marco can feel the breath and vibrations when Matt says, “Go for it—just—anything.” He can hear the desperation.

Matt’s nearly as tall as him, but lean and lanky, light enough that Marco can easily flip them over. Matt lands back against the mattress with a heavy exhale.

There’s a moment of readjustment as Matt hooks his legs around Marco’s middle. Marco finds a position with a decent degree of leverage; now he can fuck Matt just the way he wants to, thrusting with force and desperation.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Mat says. “Fucking is your number one skill.”

That Matt can still form sentences, even dumb ones, isn’t fair.

“So I’m better at sex than hockey?”

That’s such a terrible question, but he honestly wants to hear Matt’s response, though he knows it might not be an honest answer.

“Sure. So am I. So are most folks.”

It’s such a terrible question. What is it about their lives that makes these comparable topics, instead of things that don’t influence each other at all? Because the truth is that they’re independent categories, but it doesn’t always feel like that. Isn’t it enough that they’re having great kinky sex? Why should this accomplishment be compared to their on-ice performance?

It shouldn’t, but they don’t have the hard boundaries necessary to keep the different aspects of their lives from bleeding together, the personal, athletic, and sexual all tumbling together to create a disaster zone where shot blocking is sometimes sexy and it’s a toss up whether scoring feels better in a game or at the bar afterwards.

It’s a phenomenally fucked up connection. Marco doesn’t like thinking about it. “Why don’t we forget all that?”

“Why don’t you make me come?”

“Sure.”

Their hands meet on Matt’s cock and Marco’s hips continue to thrust. There aren’t anymore pauses for conversation. They’ve been on the brink for too long, now it’s full steam ahead. Marco doesn’t let up. He’s proud of finally rendering Matt fully incoherent, unable to manage much more than moaning against his neck.

Sometimes Matt does have great ideas with great endings.

Matt comes messily over their chests. Marco fucks him through it, ignoring the pain of Matt’s fingernails digging into his back.

Matt is breathing heavily, taking deep gasping breaths. Marco slows, letting the other man settle back into his body. Matt loosens his grip, stretching his arms out over his head.

“Good job.”

“Going to return the favor?” Marco asks, rolling his hips for emphasis, which makes Matt swat at him and grown softly.

“Yeah, but give me a minute,” Matt says. “Let me catch my breath, then I’ll make you come your brains out.”

There’s a brief pause, silence broken only by deep breathing, then Matt says, “I want to see it. I want to see you come all over your nice little skirt, get it filthy.”

How is Marco supposed to think when there are sentences like that hot in his ears? How is he supposed to do anything?

Matt’s hand is firm, pushing against his chest.“Pull out, I want to see this.”

Marco does, settling back to sit on his knees. He strips off the condom, relishing even the soft touch of his own hand. The skirt, which had been pushed up above his hips, falls back down. Now it settles, tented by his erection. He sits like that, waiting for Matt to make the next move.

Matt’s hand is slick with more lube and traces of come. It won’t take much. His body is buzzing with need. His skin feels too tight and too hot where it meets satin and wool and Matt’s flesh. Matt’s hands are competent, one on his cock, the other rising to circle around his nipples. Marco shudders, and leans into the touch. Marco can’t keep his hips still, bucking into the touch.

Matt is staring again, all of his laser calm zeroed in on trying to make Marco come. It’s a bit overwhelming, to have that kind of focus devoted to bringing him pleasure. He couldn’t hold himself back if he wanted to. He only cares about the next moments. Orgasm is the only thing that matters. Hockey is secondary. Home is unimportant and ultimately transient. Make believe is a far away fiction.

All that matters is this moment, the white noise of euphoria drowning out every single stray thought he might have had. It’s just him, and his body, beside Matt’s body, and the way their bodies have moved together to arrive at this moment.

It takes a minute for the world to fall back into focus.

Matt’s hand is tangled in the fabric of the skirt. “I think this is dry clean only.”

“That sucks,” Marco says.

“It might be hard to explain,” Matt says. “Worth it though.”

“Totally.”

This has been the best Tuesday afternoon in forever. Marco wants Matt to know this, but doesn’t know how to put it in words. They don’t talk about things like feelings or whatever. Most of the time they’re just talking about total bullshit, but that’s alright because they communicate physically.

They wouldn’t talk about this because it’s really nothing, just a bet, just screwing around. Only it wasn’t, not really, not exclusively. Saying it was just sex undersells the experience.

Marco wants to say something, but they don’t really do words that mean things. He can’t do words, but he can do something. He can kiss Matt.

He pulls Matt in for a kiss with no real heat. They’ve already kissed today, and it has been great, but there’s something different about making out after they’ve both come already. This kiss isn’t asking for anything, or going anywhere. It’s a kiss that is just for the sake of kissing, the opposite of desperate.

It’s a good kiss, because everything is good today. It’s just a kiss, but not really. Marco hopes that it says all of the things he can’t articulate. From the way Matt kisses back he’s pretty sure the message is received.

Marco can tell they will kiss more after today. Not all the time, but more than they used to. He is excited by this prospect. They can kiss and play dress up and do so many other things. They can play hockey, and tell lies, and tell jokes. There isn’t any limit set on what Matt and him can do together, what they can become. The possibilities are endless and exhilarating. They can be so many things, but right now they are just people who are kissing, and that is enough.


End file.
